Page 86 of Living at 40

When scheduling blocks cut out another weekend to see one another, I’m done.

“I don’t think we should continue to see each other.” The words almost gut me, but I’m convinced it’s the right thing to do. I feel like a perv having phone sex with my hours-away girlfriend when my daughter is in the next room. However, I’d still be a perv if my girlfriend was in my bed because I fucking miss Autumn and the freedom to be with her.

“Logan, what’s going on?” she softly says to me through the phone. I’m sick of video conferencing and text messages. I want to touch her. I want to physically see her. I don’t know how people in the military do this kind of thing. I can’t be distant from my girl.

Everything feels off lately. The timing of Autumn in my life. The time I spend at the office. The time I wish I had with Lorna.

“I can’t do it. With Chloe here, I had a break every other weekend. I’m not begrudging having Lorna here. I’m not. It’s just everything I do revolves around her. I don’t get to see you between work piling up and her crazy schedule.”

It’s not like I can just hire a sitter or even trust Lorna home alone for a few hours and go on a date. My girlfriend lives three hours away.

“Why don’t you come here this weekend? We can work something out with Ben and Anna. Give yourself some time off.”

“No,” I snap, harsher than I should at Autumn. She’s not the person I’m most upset with; Chloe is. She’s Lorna’s mother, and she’s nearly disappeared. How could she do this to our daughter? On top of all the activities I try to keep my daughter involved in, I have to worry about her emotional state, which is off the charts lately between conflicts at school, fluctuating grades, and this new surge of hormones every month.

“Okay,” Autumn slowly states.

“I’m sorry. I can’t be what you want me to be.”

“Wait a minute. I don’t want you to be anything other than who you are,” Autumn defends, but I barrel onward.

“I can’t add another kid to the mix.” Instantly, I regret the words. I told her I wouldn’t feel obligated. I told her I could do this with her, but I just don’t see how.

“We haven’t been talking about babies in the last six weeks.” She’s right. I know she’s right, but it’s all too much.

“I don’t want it,” I lie. I do want it. I want everything with her, but I can’t envision us together. “I can’t be what you need.”

“You’re exactly what I need,” she states, frustration filling her voice.

“How?”

“You’re a good man. You’re kind and nice to me. You love your daughter and—”

“It’s like you’re telling me I have a great personality.”

“What’s wrong with that? You do have a great personality. You’re funny and typically easygoing. I don’t understand.”

I’m silent a second, not able to explain myself. I don’t understand me either. Having diabetes can sometimes make me moody or crabby, but this is more than a mood swing. I’m just off-balance.

“Do you want me to tell you how sexy you are? How much I think about you? How I can’t sleep because I crave you next to me?”

Actually, yes. Yes, I do want those things, but I shake my head, dismissing the truth. We’ve said I love you, but somehow, it’s not enough. “Don’t humor me.”

“Logan, what am I missing here? Did I do something wrong?”

She’s perfect. This is all me. I need more. Three hours and two hundred miles separating us is too much. I can’t race off to see her on a whim or push away my child just to have a life. I already let my ex-wife do that.

“I need to go.” It isn’t true, but I can’t linger on the phone. I don’t want to prolong the pain. The urge to call and break things off consumed me, and it felt best to rip off the bandage.

“I don’t understand. We love each other,” she says, and it crushes me. After our declaration, we’ve spent the past month telling each other every chance we get. She needs to hear it as much as I do, but it’s more than words. We need to be together.

“I don’t,” I whisper, closing my eyes and pinching the bridge of my nose.

“You don’t what?” Her voice hardens through the phone. “You don’t love me?”

My heart shatters in a thousand pieces as I know I’m hurting her, but it’s for the best. This isn’t going anywhere.

Fat chick upstairs hungry to be in my pants. Told her my sausage was more than she could handle.